Nine

Rocco was deep in thought as he entered the office in Amiens following his meeting with Dreycourt. Receiving instructions of an unusual nature from the Interior Ministry was nothing new; the reach exerted by its staff was wide, and they were not beyond using official muscle to get results or manpower wherever they felt the need. But this latest move was from a self-described ‘consultant’, albeit a former member of staff. To take it further without double-checking with his superiors first might be a mistake.

He headed for his desk, planning to check for any urgent issues, then go up and see Massin. The commissaire ran a tight ship and, although he had clearly passed on the Ministry letter, undoubtedly with Perronnet’s knowledge, running past him the substance of the talk with Dreycourt wouldn’t be a bad idea.

As he entered the rambling main office, usually a smoke-tinted place of ringing telephones, slamming drawers and coarse jokes, he was met by subdued looks from uniformed and plain-clothed officers alike. One man, an older detective named Émile Anselin, was giving him a knowing smile as if enjoying a secret joke. As he caught Rocco’s eye, he turned away with a brief bark of laughter that carried a hint of derision, and made a comment that Rocco couldn’t quite hear.

Rocco ignored him. Anselin was a recent transfer-in, nearing retirement and assigned to the Amiens office to coast down to his final day of service. He wasn’t required to contribute much, thanks to an agreement between the Ministry and the independent police union, SIPN, and was fast becoming more of an obstruction than a help, content to amble around the place getting in everyone’s way. But it wasn’t Anselin’s attitude that surprised him. The usual laughter and banter that accompanied the drudgery of work – at least, when the senior officers were not in evidence – and countered the darker aspects of the job was absent. There was a subdued atmosphere in the office, and a quick shifting of eyes away from him as he moved between the desks to his own small patch of police territory.

As he dropped his side-arm into his drawer and locked it, Detective René Desmoulins approached. Desmoulins was the polar opposite of Anselin: keen, hard-working and genial, he had proven himself to be a good right-hand man for Rocco, as he’d shown in the café siege.

‘Got a moment?’ he said softly, and gave a faint nod towards the rear door leading to the yard outside. Without saying more, he led the way across the room and out of the door leading towards the workplace of the stand-in pathologist, Dr Bernard Rizzotti.

Rocco followed, wondering what was going on. There was definitely something in the atmosphere today; even Desmoulins was acting strangely.

He soon found out. As the door closed behind them, he tapped Desmoulins on the shoulder and said, ‘What the hell’s going on in there, René? They’re all acting as if their favourite pet just died.’

Desmoulins turned, nodded and cast a quick look around before saying, ‘Anselin says you’re bailing out and moving back to Paris.’

‘Anselin talks too much.’

‘So, it’s true.’ Desmoulins looked surprised.

Rocco ignored the question. ‘What else is he saying?’

‘He claims he saw the transfer order in the admin office. It’s all over the station that you’re up for promotion to a new unit and can’t wait to kick the mud off your shoes for a cushy number and a bigger desk.’ He held his hands up. ‘That’s not me saying it; I’m just telling you what’s going round the building. You know what the rumour mill’s like: anything to brighten up a dull day. It’s your business, I know, but … you’re not denying it.’

Rocco didn’t know what to say. He felt a measure of annoyance towards Anselin for spreading rumours, but also towards whoever had allowed the information to come out in the first place. However, he owed Desmoulins an explanation at least. The younger man had proven himself loyal and trustworthy, and was not the kind to be looking to benefit from a colleague’s potential departure. The rest of the building could wait until he was good and ready to make a decision.

‘I’ve been offered a new posting, it’s true,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s as far as it’s gone. It’s a new unit being formed in Paris to fight organised gang crimes – but that’s all I know. I only heard last week and haven’t even agreed to talk to anyone about it yet. Why are people getting their pants in a twist?’

‘I don’t know.’ Desmoulins looked embarrassed. ‘I guess it’s the same whenever anyone moves on. A bit of envy, someone getting a promotion when they’re not; a sense that everything’s going to change. People don’t like that, do they? Change, I mean. Anyway, I thought you liked it here.’

‘I do. But change happens all the time,’ Rocco countered darkly. ‘Promotions, transfers, retirements – even death in service. Nothing stays the same for long, especially in this job. Even idiots like Anselin get moved around.’

He checked his watch. He had to talk to Massin. Not just about Dreycourt but about the new job offer. He’d thought of little else since hearing about it through Massin himself a week ago, but hadn’t yet decided what to do. And that worried him. Rocco always tried to make decisions quickly and firmly. Chewing over something endlessly implied that he had doubts.

The truth was, he was still getting over the mental and physical bruises incurred while dealing with the assassin, Nightingale, who had been sent after him by Lakhdar Farek, one of Paris’s leading gang lords. Ideally, he should have been relishing the opportunity to get to grips with more of Farek’s kind, backed by the better facilities and budgets promised in the new anti-gang unit known as the Research and Intervention Brigade (BRI). But the prospect wasn’t thrilling him for some reason and he could only think that the pressures of the past couple of weeks had something to do with it.

‘You don’t know what to do, is that it?’ said Desmoulins.

‘Not yet. But I’ll let you know as soon as I do. That’s a promise. And this stays between us, understand? Doesn’t matter what anyone’s saying.’

‘Of course.’ Desmoulins shuffled his feet and flushed. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, you know. And I bet I’m not the only one to say that.’

Rocco clapped the young detective gratefully on the shoulder and walked back into the building. He was going to have to make up his mind one way or another. Putting it off would only make him look lame and indecisive. He’d go up there and tell them that his decision was made. They might not like it, apart from Massin, of course, who might be glad to see the back of him, but better to come out with it and be done.

He rang Massin’s secretary, and after a few moments she told him to come up.

Massin was with his deputy, Commissaire Perronnet, and Captain Eric Canet, who gave Rocco a smile. All three officers looked as if they were waiting for examination results rather than a report by a subordinate.

Massin didn’t waste time with preliminaries. ‘I’m sorry, Rocco, but I appear to have conspired to put you once more under the eye of the Interior Ministry. I’m hoping you agree to take on this case as you have the experience.’

Rocco felt the wind taken out of his sales. What the hell was Massin talking about? Was this his obtuse way of giving Rocco a shove out of the door?

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The authorisation letter to assist Dreycourt.’ Massin’s forehead creased in a faint scowl. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not interested. I’ve agreed you’ll be assigned to it until further notice. It means putting off your decision about the new job a little longer but, in light of the importance of the deceased person, I think it’s something we can’t avoid. The Ministry agrees and is understandably taking a very close interest.’

Rocco finally understood. So, they weren’t waiting for his decision about the new job after all. Not yet, at least. ‘The deceased. You mean Secretary of State Bourdelet?’

‘Dreycourt told you?’

‘Yes. He didn’t want to but I beat him up until he talked.’

Massin didn’t even blink. ‘Now why don’t I find that impossible to believe?’